by Lisa See
The truck bumped to a stop. Below the howl of the wind, I heard men yapping at each other, then the driver put the truck into gear. We crept along until we once again jerked to a stop. Rough hands yanked us out of the truck. The dust and sand created a stinging, pitting, merciless tempest in the midnight darkness. My traveling companions—who had previously kept to themselves—and I now clung to each other, moving as a mass up some stairs toward a dim yellow light and through a door. As soon as it closed behind us, I gulped my first full breath since disembarking from the train. We tried to brush the grit from our faces and clothes. Eyeballing us, I saw that we looked filthy, exhausted, and strained.
We were in some kind of administration building. A sign read: TOPAZ WAR RELOCATION CENTER. One of the little boys grabbed the front of his dungarees and announced he had to go pee-pee. That set up a chorus from the other tykes. And to tell the truth, I also had to go so bad my back teeth were floating. A couple of guards escorted a group of us back into the dust storm. We followed the beams from the flashlights to a communal latrine. The stalls had sides but no doors. The mother wearing the cardigan started to cry. It wasn’t a big deal for me after so many years sharing a dressing room with a bunch of girls, but how could the people who ran this place expect a proper Japanese woman to do her business in front of everyone? But she—and we—had no choice. Then it was back into the storm to return to the administration building.
One by one we were fingerprinted and processed. I tried flirting with the officer, attempting to keep things light and breezy. Didn’t go over well. I was assigned to a barracks: 24 3-D. An older Japanese man—clearly Issei—approached me. He bowed, and I automatically bowed back more deeply. He spoke to me in Japanese. “I am your block manager.”
I thanked him in Japanese, using the proper honorific for his age and station, although I didn’t know what a “block manager” was.
At the sound of my voice, the creases in his face furrowed even deeper.
“You talk white,” he noted, and I couldn’t deny it. I inquired about my brother. He said, “You can look for him tomorrow.” Then he gave me a kerchief to cover my face, turned on a battery-powered lantern, and took me back into the horrors of the night. I saw nothing in the lantern light except dust, dust, dust. I had no sense of where I was or where I was going. After walking for ten minutes or so, he dragged me up some stairs, through a door, and into a minuscule foyer.
“Welcome to your new home,” he whispered in his heavy accent. He studied my clothes disdainfully. “We’ll get you something useful to wear tomorrow. We have a lot of families here, so be quiet as I show you to your area.”
I took off my shoes and followed him down a dark hall past what looked like separate rooms for the family groups he’d mentioned. He opened one of the doors and motioned for me to enter. Sheets and blankets hung from clotheslines to divide the space. Heat came from a potbellied stove. He pulled open a sheet and motioned for me to enter. There was a cot, a pillow, and two folded Army blankets. When I turned to thank him, he was already gone. I peeled off my dress and draped it over the end of the cot. Then I lay down in my slip and panties. The curtains around me shivered like ghosts. On the other side of the curtain, I heard breathing. Other people—total strangers—were sleeping just inches from me without any barrier or protection beyond the sheets. Someone snored softly. Nearby, one of my roommates rolled over, and her—his?—cot’s springs groaned. I should have been scared out of my wits, but I was madder than mad. I was bone-tired too, but I had a hard time falling asleep.
Early the next morning, I was dimly aware of a bell ringing, people talking in hushed voices, kids running through the hall, and the stomp of boots. When I opened my eyes, I saw that the ceiling was covered in tar paper and a single bare lightbulb hung from a cord. Jesus, what a pit. Dust and sand had come into the building while I slept and were all over my blanket, my face, and my arms. I reached for my dress and wrestled myself into it under the covers as quickly as I could to keep the chill out. When I stood, the floor creaked. I could see through the cracks between the floorboards to the ground. I needed to find my brother, but I had to do other things first. A woman hurried purposefully down the hallway. I asked where to find the bathrooms, and she told me in perfect English that individual barracks didn’t have toilets.
“Our block has a special building for that and for washing up,” she explained. “You’ve missed breakfast, but I can give you directions to our block’s mess hall too, if you’d like. The bell will announce lunch.”
Outside, the wind had fortunately settled. I walked down the dirt street to the corner of my barracks, where I stopped to get my bearings. Row after row of barracks stretched in every direction. This place was like a small city, and the men—some dressed as though they had business to attend to, while others wore casual slacks and sweaters—all seemed to have somewhere to go. I found my way to the latrine, where a line extended onto the road and around the corner. I saw grandmothers draped in big Army coats that hung down to the ground and young women with their hair tied up in kerchiefs. Mothers held infants in their arms and scolded their little ones for not staying in the line. I waited my turn. After I used the toilet, I entered the washroom. Showers lined one wall. The center of the room was filled with big tubs to do laundry by hand. A few mothers had commandeered the tubs and were dropping their kids in one after the other for quick baths. I washed my face and hands and went back outside. Now I felt a tiny bit presentable.
I asked for directions to the administration building. I walked about a half mile, passing barracks lined up in groups or “blocks” like anchovies in a tin. Topaz was so big that there were street names and addresses, but there wasn’t a plant in sight. The desert had been scraped clean to create the camp. In ten minutes, I saw more Japanese than I’d probably seen in my entire life. I wanted to shout at them, “How could you let them do this to you?” Suddenly before me was a barbed-wire fence. Clearly I’d missed the turn to the administration building. I saw a guard tower to my left and one to my right. Armed guards patrolled with trained German shepherds. Outside—flat, flat, flat, to a distant mountain range with one especially high peak. Dust devils swirled in the distance and not a sign of civilization in sight.
“How ya doin’ up there, soldier?” I called to the young man in the guard tower.
He lifted his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and shouted, “Step away from the fence!”
All right, then. I walked back the way I’d come. I found my correct turn and in minutes arrived at the administration building, which in the light of day I could see was just another hastily built structure with plywood walls and a tar paper roof. I was given a khaki shirt, some green trousers, and an old Army coat—like the ones I’d seen the grandmothers wearing—and mine, too, came down to my ankles. When I asked for my brother, a woman flipped through some files, found Yori’s folder, and told me he was the coach for the Rams baseball team. She gave me directions to the “high school.” For the first time in days, my smile was sincere. Yori was truly here!
I found the baseball field and spotted my brother huddling with a group of kids. The last time I’d seen him was on the wharf when I left Honolulu for San Francisco. He’d had an island-boy quality back then—with a loose gait that carried him from the beach where he surfed with guys from his school to my dad’s sampan to the temple where we worshiped. In the last four years, Yori had grown up. He had broad shoulders, high cheekbones, and the authoritative but friendly manner that seemed just right for a coach. When the boys took their spots on the field and started playing, I approached. Yori’s eyes lit up in stunned surprise when he saw me.
“Sis!”
None of that bowing stuff for us. He put his arms around me, and we held each other tight.
“You look like shit,” he said when he released me, and we laughed.
“Mom and Pop?” I asked.
He nodded toward the boys. “Let me finish up here. I’ll tell you what I know later.”
I sat on a bench and watched him coach the team. A bell rang. Yori dismissed the boys.
“I haven’t seen Mom and Pop since that terrible day,” he said as he sat down. He stared out across the field with a faraway look, telling me how he’d been detained and questioned for hours. His interrogators had wanted to know if Pop had been signaling to Japanese planes.
I shook my head. “I know the drill.”
“I told those bastards I’m a Nisei, born in Los Angeles,” he went on. “I said they were talking out of their asses. I let them in on the fact that someone in an American plane shot and killed Hideo—also an American citizen.” He fought his emotions. “Kimiko, I’ve never seen anything so horrible in my life. What they did to him … And Pop and I still had to go back to shore …”
I burned for Yori and my father, helpless at sea with someone whom they’d loved, dead—in pieces—on the deck. There were no words.
“Mom and Pop have been sent to a special camp—”
“In Arizona,” I finished for him. “I know. Have you heard from them?”
“No, and I haven’t written to them either. I don’t want guilt by association. You?”
“I haven’t written to them either. I only just found out where they are.”
“Well, don’t start now,” he ordered, but the regret in his voice felt heavy. “Shikata ga nai. It cannot be helped,” he added, and I could practically hear my mother reciting those same words.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. This place was so desolate, our family had been so broken, and my life was so destroyed that I wondered not only what hideous thing could happen next but how—if ever—we could recover what we’d lost individually and as a family.
Yori sighed, then asked, “Lunch?” I was starved, and dwelling in self-pity wasn’t my way. He took me to the mess hall in his block. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said. We grabbed metal trays, waited in line, and food was dropped on our plates, whether we wanted it or not. Plop, plop, plop. Then we walked through the long rows of tables, with Yori scanning the room until he saw what—or whom—he was searching for. He set his tray down on a table already occupied by a husband, wife, and a bunch of squalling, brawling, shoving brats. Yori beamed, but I didn’t ken to why until the two adults stood and bowed. Aunt Haru, Uncle Junji, and their kids! They had all changed so much I hadn’t recognized them at first. My aunt and uncle both seemed careworn—thinner and shorter than I remembered. The kids had all grown, though, and they certainly hadn’t lost any of their spunk. Overall, the family looked healthy despite what they’d been through. We had only a few minutes to catch up, because my aunt and uncle had to get back to work. Before they left, they asked if I’d like to move to their barracks and live with the rest of the family. Everything was happening so fast that I was shaken down to my toes. A few days ago I was in a movie studio; today I was in a hellhole. Being united with other Fukutomis offered some comfort at least.
After lunch, Yori guided me to his block and introduced me to the other residents in the barracks. A couple of people gave me things they could spare—an extra toothbrush, a small men’s T-shirt, a pair of socks, a sweater. Once my new belongings were piled up next to me, Yori said, “We were taught never to ask anything directly, but …” He motioned around the claustrophobic space. “Life is different now, and Mom and Pop’s rules don’t make sense here.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Where were you, and why did it take so long for you to join us?”
He knew me, so it didn’t surprise him all that much that I’d tried to pass as an authentic Chinese princess, dancing in a San Francisco nightclub. “I thought I could get away with it for the duration.” I shrugged. “I was wrong.”
“Things might have been different for me too. Most Japanese were allowed to stay in Hawaii and continue to live their regular lives.” He gave a short but bitter laugh. “The haoles need us to keep the island economy going, and there’s a lot of new work there with the war and all. But I had our family problem. The authorities shipped me to Angel Island, where I was photographed, fingerprinted, and examined for infectious diseases like I was a goddamn coolie laborer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing for you to be sorry about. It’s not your fault. And listen, I’m lucky. Topaz isn’t great, but it could be worse.”
I gave him a questioning look.
“This place was originally called the Central Utah Relocation Center,” he continued. “CURC sounds like curse, so they decided to name it for the nearby town, but the Mormons got all up in arms about it. So now this is called Topaz for the big mountain that—”
“I saw it.”
“But we call it Whirlpool Valley, because of the dust storms. Anyway, this is now the fifth largest city in the state. How do you like that? About nine thousand people live here between the internees and the staff.”
“So where’s the lucky part?” I asked.
“Last month the government decided to let people like me fight,” he answered, “but first everyone was required to take the loyalty oath. We had to answer certain questions. Would we swear allegiance to the U.S. of A. and faithfully defend it from any and all attacks by foreign or domestic forces, and forswear any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor, and so on? The answer was easy for me—yes—but it was terrible for the old-timers. Issei don’t have the right to become American citizens, they can’t vote, they’ve spent years being picked on, and now they were asked to forsake the emperor? They would be without a country! Stateless! Then we were asked if we were willing to serve in the armed forces of the U.S. on combat duty. I answered yes to that too.”
“Have you lost your marbles?”
His response was not one I wanted to hear. “I’ll be leaving soon for basic training at Camp Shelby in Mississippi—”
“You can’t leave! I just got here!”
“Sis, no one told me you were coming … Anyway, the Army is putting together an all-Japanese unit called the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. I hear there’s gonna be a bunch of other Nisei from Hawaii—”
“Yori! We’re finally together! Isn’t that more important than fighting with some guys you went to high school with?”
“Sumimasenga, I’m sorry, but you never even tried to get in touch with me,” he said sternly. “Why do you suddenly care?”
“I guess I deserve that, but you’re going to fight for them after everything they’ve done to our family? After putting you in this place?”
He gave me his best big-brother you-don’t-know-squat look. “It’s our country, Sis. Don’t ever forget it.”
I loved the United States. It was my home, but inside I was so angry. So angry about everything.
He watched my face, and I could nearly hear him thinking, Too much emotion. After a long pause, he added, “You know as well as I do that Germany and Japan have to be defeated.”
He was right, of course.
“They’re going to ask you those two questions as well,” he informed me. “A word of advice. If you answer no to either of them, you’ll be labeled a no-no girl.”
“No-no girl?” My mind went to Grace and Helen. Sorrow welled in my chest. But Yori had a very different definition.
“Those who answer in the negative are taken away. They’re sent to special camps like the one where they’re keeping Mom and Pop.”
We talked awhile more. He told me that Topaz’s rules had loosened, so that now people could leave to hike, work in the nearby town, or take jobs on neighboring farms.
“We have everything and everyone here—teachers, scientists, artists, businessmen, even performers. There’s a guy, Goro Suzuki—”
“The comedian? He used to play the Sky Room in Chinatown!”
“Well, he’s gotten clearances to play clubs in Cleveland, Akron, and Chicago. He’s changed his name to Jack Soo so he’ll sound Chinese.”
I knew all about that.
“You just have to get past the loyalt
y oath,” he added.
After I left Yori, I walked straight to the placement office.
“How in the hell do I get out of this joint?” I asked, momentarily slipping and letting the truth of how I felt show, which was probably not the most diplomatic way to introduce myself to the man in charge.
“You can’t just arrive one day and expect to leave the next,” he huffed in response. He told me that most girls my age had to wash laundry or work in the nearby sugar beet fields. Maybe he saw me for what I was—a girl with a scrapbook past—because he gave me an inside job as a file clerk, earning sixteen dollars a month, for which I acted grateful. But, clearly, becoming a file clerk wasn’t going to work for Princess Tai.
GRACE
Good Luck, Bad Luck
I’d been home ten days, and I was just beginning to come to terms with what had happened. By the end of filming, it had been clear to everyone that I was seriously hurt. The studio had offered to take me to the hospital, but I just wanted to go home. The trip back to San Francisco was sad and lonely. I had no idea, however, that I would feel even worse when I entered my apartment. It echoed hollowly without Ruby’s vibrancy, but her presence was everywhere: a pair of shoes left helter-skelter by the bathroom door, her perfume bottles on the dresser, her robe draped over a chair. I took it all in then loaded up on aspirin and whiskey. I tried to sleep, but I hurt too much.
The next day I went to my doctor. “The physical blow rarely causes injuries. Instead, it’s what happens on your way to the floor,” he informed me, as though I hadn’t lived with that knowledge for a good part of my life. “The bruise on your jaw won’t win you any beauty contests. It’s these other injuries that are of more concern.” He gently palpated the swollen green, purple, and yellowing splotches that ran from my armpit down my side and along my left hip. He verified my fractured ribs from my encounter with the table edge and diagnosed a hematoma on my hip from my hard landing. I also had vertigo that came as a result of a slight concussion. “It looks like you’ve been down this road before, my dear. Is there anything you want to tell me? I’d like to help.” When I thanked him but said no, he sighed, advised me to rest for a month, and ordered me to drink milk to build myself up and heal my bones.
